


The Curious Flower

by jcrowquill



Series: The Unpublished Folios [2]
Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: ACD Canon, Case Fic, M/M, Sexual Frustration, UST, marital infidelity, squishy romanticism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-21
Updated: 2013-07-21
Packaged: 2017-12-20 22:22:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/892573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jcrowquill/pseuds/jcrowquill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While working on a case with Sherlock involving the murders of several flower girls, John comes to terms with the fact that he has fallen in love with his closest friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It only took me 2 1/2 years to write this! ;) This follows '[The Art of Omission](http://archiveofourown.org/works/786154),' the first in my series of Dr. Watson's unpublished Sherlock Holmes stories. I'm trying to keep this as much like a pastiche as possible and I'm focusing on having a good 'voice' for the series. Wish me luck!
> 
> With that said, I am an American author and there will be some inaccuracies. I ask for your patience and kind understanding. :)

As with 'The Art of Omission,' the reasons for failing to include this account among other published adventures during my lifetime (if at all) should be immediately apparent.  I would ask future archivists to place this story between The Adventure of the Red-Headed League  and A Case of Identity in future collected volumes, should its publication ever be considered socially acceptable.

JHW

-

There are occasionally episodes in a man's life when he is forced to question his very idea of himself and his position in the universe.  These deep introspections are crucial to our natures as creatures of thought, and, perhaps because of this, they are often accompanied by turbulent emotions.

I have had two such experiences in my life.  The first occurred after the final series of illness and injury during my military service.  As I lay sweating out a fever, half-insensible on opiates, I realized suddenly that I did not actually enjoy the path that I had chosen and that I was perhaps not the well-rounded medical man of action that I had once thought myself to be. It seems obvious now, but at the time I felt, admittedly rather dramatically, that my time up until that point had been ill-apportioned and that I was doomed to a hard life in hot climes on hard beds with an infinite variety of unlucky injuries.

The second personal reckoning came more recently at the hands of the Great Detective Sherlock Holmes, who informed me before my marriage that I was hopelessly in love with him.  You read that correctly. From any other man it would have come across as a deviant show of narcissism; but from those coolly logical lips, which soon after pressed to mine, it was as if my heart was speaking to me from outside of my body (and with a great deal more honesty than the fickle thing had ever afforded me before).

I didn't think so at the time. At that moment, between his strange theatrics and my own red-faced awkwardness, I thought that I would be eager for the separation that would accompany independent residences.  However, as the day of my departure from Baker Street drew nearer, I found my thoughts more and more occupied with my lanky, brooding associate who was, at least outwardly, becoming less and less occupied with me.

He never spoke of that conversation again, and the songs he played on his violin after were not songs that I liked or recognized.

The loss of him weighed on me and after my nuptials I sought to lose myself in the newness of life with Mary.  Even in the first weeks, I couldn’t say that it was ever passionate so much as fond; there was a gentleness to my new wife and a warm degree of understanding that united us as companions and partners in domesticity.  It was a pleasant life as I continued to build my practice at Paddington, but the sameness of the days began to wear on me and my thoughts strayed with increasing frequency to Baker Street and the life of excitement that I had left behind.

By the time I re-entered my friend’s life after the eight month absence following my marriage, I had quite convinced myself that it was solely adventure and intellectual engagement that I had missed.  I hadn’t been entirely sure that Holmes would accept me back after my apparent desertion, but he was as ever frustratingly, single-mindedly focused on his work;  he pulled me into a case again as though I had never left, almost as though he had not noticed that several seasons had rolled past without my company.  After proving myself loyal through my assistance in ‘A Scandal in Bohemia’ (and again as I squatted in the dark in ‘The Adventure of the Red-Headed League’), it seemed that he had quite forgiven me and taken me back in my capacity as a friend and occasional assistant.

Seeing the man at work, bonelessly throwing himself down to examine minutia in the mud or dangling himself over balcony railings to eavesdrop, I wondered how I had managed to pass the months without his constant presence.  Mary was a translucent, pale flower next to the fire and force of his tumultuous passions and sudden moods, and I found myself thinking again on the conversation that he had concluded with “Let's not speak of this again, Watson.”

 

As he stood beside the fireplace and recounted a case to me one night, I watched his face as a silhouette brushed into existence by warm firelight and I realized far too late that Holmes had been right; I was mindlessly devoted to him, smitten despite even his most horrible traits, and I had been a fool to leave our comfortable arrangement for a life that was entirely too easy with woman who would have been content to simply be my friend.

 

I was determined to content myself with simply being his friend, but Holmes felt the shift in me that night; I saw it in his long, elegant face, the flick of his bright, intelligent gaze from my lips to my eyes and back.  It began with surprise, but moved quickly to an intense look of that was equal parts curiosity, determination, and something darker; from that night forward I knew that his great mind was bent to a new puzzle.

I came by the Baker Street flat often and Holmes, being a keen observer, was able to sense the moments when I might be moved by his small shows of affection. And being the penultimate example of a subtly self-serving individual, he did not hesitate to act.  

It was never forward, never indiscreet enough that I could call him out for his bad behavior.  Nonetheless, we both knew what it meant when he let his long fingertips brush mine when he handed me a book or let his gaze linger on mine for a moment longer than necessary.  Never was there more longing communicated through such small gestures!

But this is all very theatrical, and I am certain that you are only passingly interested in the strange machinations of my brilliant friend's curious heart. So instead I will introduce you to the story that you may recognize from the papers as London's mysterious Fog Phantom.

Of course, the name was pure sensationalism crafted by a clever editor.  The story itself was, as you might expect, considerably less supernatural than the name would suggest.

The summer was unusually warm; the days began with a thick fog of moisture brought on by the cooler evenings, and this opaque humidity was rapidly burned off as the rising sun seared its way into the heavens.  The figures of the merchants and travellers daily would fade into view as the haze lifted and London clattered to life.

There was nothing insidious about the simple change in weather, but evil men are often known to take advantage.  It was the first week of July when the mist thinned to reveal a flower girl dead on her corner, propped against her cart.

Within days, another young woman was found dead several streets away, and a third within a week of the first.  When the papers began calling into question the efficacy of Scotland Yard, I knew that, if he was not already, my dear friend Sherlock Holmes would have a personal interest in the case.

On the morning I went to see him a few days after the the third murder, he answered the door with a bright vigor.

"Come along, Watson," he said affably, turning me right round and ushering me back down the steps that I had only just climbed, “Your timing is, as usual, perfect; you have happened to arrive just as I was called out to visit the scene of another murder by our phantom!”

He was the only man I’ve ever seen positively gleeful over an unfortunate corpse, and his application of the aggrandizing epithet only confirmed that he was in fine spirits.

“Another?” I asked him uncertainly as I climbed up into a cab.  

He took a seat opposite me and his knees briefly bumped mine in a jangle of bony limbs.  As he shifted to find a comfortable position, drawing one leg up and resting his pointed chin on the top of his knee, he said, “Well, yes, obviously.”

His intelligent gray eyes tracked from my face to the window of the carriage, then back again as the wheels began their forward roll.  He was practically aquiver, his wiry frame full of enthusiastic anticipation of a morning’s sleuthing.  When he spoke again, scarcely a second later, he explained, “I have a theory, Watson, and I would be delighted to receive confirmation.”

Clearly the confirmation he sought was not mine, for he nodded to himself and fell silent again.  When I asked him directly to explain, he pulled a newspaper clipping from one of the many internal pockets of his jacket and smiled like an absolutely demonic creature as he handed it over to me.

I obediently read it over, grunting a little in annoyance as the carriage hit a rut in the road rather hard, and then shook my head as I handed it back to him.

“Orchids, Watson!” he said emphatically without accepting the rumpled scrap back from my outstretched hand.

I looked back through the article for references to the flower and read aloud, “'The girl, Marianne Winter, was found dead with her basket of flowers spilled in the early morning light.  The beautiful sprawl of violets, posies, and orchids a delicate shroud over her lovely young -- Holmes, this is sentimentality!"

"But the orchids!"

At this point, he reached out to take the paper from me fitfully, obviously in one of his artfully dramatic moods and clearly disappointed by my lack of immediate understanding.  The words 'have I taught you nothing?' were all but written across his narrow face.  Such judgment from my would-be lover!

Without intending to, I chuckled at his frustration and the man glowered at me. He placed both feet on the carriage floor as though suddenly trying to be a conventional gentleman, and then proceeded to stare obstinately out the window until our carriage rolled to a stop.

Despite any imagined slight, he was once again alert and conversational when we arrived.  He stepped down lightly and turned to assist me as I dismounted.

We walked together to Lestrade and the man clasped my hand jovially.  By now, The ferret-like inspector had become accustomed to my presence, and I secretly believed that he appreciated having a buffer between himself and the raging intellectual tempest beside me.  He acknowledged me with an almost relieved smile and guided us to the perfectly preserved crime scene.

It was altogether very tragic, the lovely girl curled on her side as though simply sleeping with her flowers spilling over her slightly worn skirts and her tidily kept hair coming down from its pins. Holmes has commented more than once that I have a tendency toward sentimentality, especially where it concerns young women, but I will freely state that only a hardened heart would not have been moved by her loss.  

Holmes, however, had completely abandoned both our company and general propriety as he walked ahead and made several circuitous passes about the body.  He crouched on the ground beside her for a moment, stooping low enough that his sharp knees brushed the dirty street. His long, hollow-cheeked face was intent as his keen eyes darted about from the body to the ground about her; his fingers brushed over her chill ones and across the thick, water-plump stems and petals of her tragically lost flowers.

As every time before, I made my observations with the most thought-out reasoning I could manage, with the full knowledge that my conclusions were wrong.

All at once, Holmes was on his feet again, alert as a hunting dog. Between his fingers he held the stem of a flowering wand of pale pink orchids. The triumphant look on his face signaled the start of an episode of intolerable smugness.

He looked at me brightly before looking to Lestrade, "It is a coded message."

"From whom, to whom?" Lestrade asked, not satisfied with that answer.

"I expect to be able to tell you by this evening."

At that, the detective inspector sighed as though he was very put upon.  He knew that there were limits to my friend's tremendous abilities, but he was no less disappointed by the lack of an immediate, irrefutable deduction. After all, the number of victims was climbing quickly now and the public pressure for resolution was becoming more and more vitriolic.

Holmes read his disappointment and laughed, clapping him on the shoulder jovially, "There won't be any fresh murders before then."

“Give me something, Holmes,” Lestrade begged.

It was easy to play upon my friend’s love of showmanship; it was rarely difficult to convince him to expound on the evidence that he had used to form the basis of his deductions.  This instance was no different and I could easily tell that he was thrilled at the opportunity to share his brilliance.

He nodded to the detective inspector and held out the flowering stem for our perusal, “All of the murdered girls have had upon their persons exotic blooms that would not have normally been in their inventory.  That in itself is curious enough, but if you look at this particular specimen you will note that it has been very freshly cut, as compared to the slightly browning stems of her other flowers.  It is clearly a later addition, as it would have been for the other three girls.”

Impressed, Lestrade nodded slowly, then said, “And how is this a message?”

“It is obviously a means for someone to communicate... though who it involves and what they’re saying remains a mystery.  However, it is curious that the journalist who wrote the stories noted the orchids specifically in each of the descriptions.  Through inclusion of this small detail, any reader who is privy to the code would receive the message just by reading the newspaper.”

The shorter man nodded in comprehension and rolled that idea around in his head.  After a moment, he said, “We will look into the articles and their author for more information.”

“Do wait until the story goes to print though, my dear inspector.  We will want to crack the code and catch the culprits in the act!”

“And you think that you can do this?”

“Yes, of course,” Holmes replied as though offended by the insinuation that there was a task that his amazing powers of logic could not surmount.

The two of us packed ourselves back into a cab to return to Baker Street.  My friend, now deep in thought, was amicably silent though his knee did rest comfortably against mine as he slouched introspectively in his seat.

At the flat, he pulled out a bundle of newspapers that he had tied off with string.  From there, he was soon stretched out full-length on the carpet, poring over the last few weeks of stories and advertisements.  He was, as ever, vocal in his findings, muttered "oh!"s and irritable huffs of disappointment breaking the companionable silence.

Finally, he slithered up onto the settee beside me with an article in one hand and a hand-written note in the other.  His eyes were alight with intellectual pleasure and for a moment I felt it almost difficult to be so near him in his intensity.  As a married man, I had no right to feel as I did for him in that moment.

Something in my expression must have betrayed me, for he momentarily abandoned his criminological pursuit in exchange for pursuit of a different sort.

"You are most enamoured of me when I am at work," he stated without subtlety, leaning closer for a moment.

It would have been very easy to take any number of actions; I could have pushed him back in disgust or pulled him close to kiss him.  The truest reaction, though, most accurate and least treacherous to any heart was to simply reply, "Yes, I am."

He smiled at that, looking incredibly pleased with himself. His pleasure was dampened slightly, though, when I leaned away from him and reminded him mildly, "But that point is moot, as I am a married man and we are simply friends."

I half-expected a protest from my friend, but he just laughed and said, "As ever."

 It was a slightly confusing answer and it immediately made me question his motivations for making the initial comment.  I wondered if it was some sort of mockery, or if he was simply taking inventory of my emotions to ascertain if they remained constant.  In any case, I felt slightly out of sorts at his blithe agreement and I wondered for the first time if his affections for me had been diminished during my absence or by the ring on my finger.

I should have known that I was being tested, for he read my reaction with his usual lack of difficulty.

"Now, now, Watson..." he said with a vexing half-smile, "You shouldn't be put-out when I am being so agreeable."

Having completed his present game of emotional antagonism, he sat back again and held out his newspaper clippings.  What I had previously thought a note was actually a small, hastily drawn map.

"The locations of the murders are here," he said, jabbing his finger at the page, "Note the street names."

I did so in expectation of further elaboration rather than because the names meant anything to me.

"I realized that the locations were a part of the message when I noted that they were always specifically mentioned in the newspaper coverage, and always two-word streets.  These," he indicated an assortment of hasty marks in sepia ink, "Are locations and individuals that experienced high-value burglaries within a day of the murders.  You'll observe that the streets where the girls were killed correspond to the initials of the names of the people who were robbed."

"That is... just ghastly.  These young women's lives are worth less than... what, Holmes?  What are they stealing?"

"The material wealth of the upper class," he replied grandly.

"It's disgusting."

"Yes," my detective replied, "Which is why it falls on us to catch the degenerates responsible."

There was a certain tone of righteousness in his voice, but I could also tell by the vitality of his lithe body and the gleam in his eyes that there was also an unhealthy degree of unmitigated excitement at the outing.  While intellectual acrobatics were his most beloved pasttime, the man took an almost obscene pleasure in putting himself into harm's way that was quite disconcerting.

Seeing my expression, he asked, "And of course you will accompany me tomorrow night?"

I realized after that I should have asked where, when, and to what purpose; however, with that expectant face so close to mine, I could only tell him yes.

With my company for the excursion secured, he brightened and said, “Excellent!  We will meet tomorrow night at seven-thirty outside of the home of Lord Percival Canton.”

“How-?”

“The story will run in the papers tomorrow morning, which means that that the crime will occur tomorrow night.  Mr. Thornton’s initials correspond to the street where our unlucky lass was brutally strangled this morning and he recently acquired several extremely large, rare sapphires at auction.”

“And the time?”

“He and his wife are known for their interest in opera; tomorrow night’s curtain rises at seven.”

Sometimes Holmes’ casual knowledge of the comings and goings of the upper class surprised me, but more often I was simply in awe of the sheer volume of information that he carried about with him in his vast mental library.  He had made comments once about discarding useless information, but I had yet to determine what he found without value and why; I certainly would have never thought to memorize the proclivities of unmet strangers.

Laughing jovially, he sent me home to take supper with my wife and reminded me to meet him the following evening as though I could possibly forget.


	2. Chapter 2

\--

On arrival, I did not see my dear companion.  I glanced about, trying not to seem suspicious myself, and wondered if I was early or late.  I didn't have long to think about it though, before a thin, badly dressed man was a long nose and unfashionably long hair pulled me back into the narrow space between two buildings.

I would have struggled, but for the familiar voice against my ear that softly scolded,  "You're so conspicuous, Watson.  And late!"

"It is precisely seven thirty!" I protested in a similarly hushed tone.

"Yes, but you should know by now that seven thirty means seven sharp; I made a thorough inspection of the house and ascertained the thieves' point of entry hours ago.  Indeed, I can see that they've already been up and down to test more than once and have left scuffs and fibers of wool from their jackets."

I was listening, of course, though still lightly vibrating with nerves and indignation.  The warmth of the slim, solid body at my back both soothed and agitated me, and I found myself distracted by the entirety of the great detective in that confined space.

And of course, I knew that he would know this fact as plainly as he knew everything else.  There was an almost tangible tension as he spoke against my ear again, as though there was a violin playing a single, sustained note that was gradually rising in volume.

"It will be that window, and they will come down from the roof.  With their plunder, they will leave the same way."

The house rose several stories above us and a single floor above the building adjacent.  The evening light gleamed off of the smooth window panes, which glowed dimly from the gas lights within.  The window in question was the furthest from the street and seemed somehow darker and less welcoming than the rest, but it could have been solely through my association with the future crime.

"But we are down here,” I pointed out.

"Yes..." Holmes said, shifting distracting behind me so that his jacket front was firmly pressed against my back, "But I have laid a trap for them. It's rather ingenious-"

"Of course it is," I said drily.

He continued as though I hadn't spoken, full of his usual vigorous enthusiasm, "and I'm confident that it will work."

"Will the Yard be involved at all?"

"Yes, I have told Lestrade that he is to be in the immediate vicinity starting at eight.  I estimate that the burglary will occur at approximately eight-thirty."

"Eight-thirty?"

"Yes... So we will have a short wait."

I sighed, fighting the impulse to lean against him.  I would only be taunting myself if I did, for I would have been indulging the desire to be near him in a way that couldn't plague my conscience but wouldn’t satisfy my love for him.

Instead I held very still and stood very stiffly for the next 15 minutes.  At that point, his fingertips lightly slid blindly down the side of my hand, where they gently laced between my own.  Neither of us breathed or moved for a moment and that single note rose again in volume.

I turned my hand, snugging the back of my hand against his palm.  We inhaled. Again we were still until I pulled his arm across me and about my waist, which drew us closer together.  My tall friend rested his cheek against my hair and I felt his quick breath against my temple.

We stood together, pressed warmly against one another in the shadows of the darkening evening, until I felt him stiffen slightly and straighten to look about.  

"They're here," he breathed, his thoughts already on to the next task.

He lingered a moment longer, and when he released me I could feel his hesitation.  With the space between us and the coolness of the night air against my back again, I felt an unaccustomed surge of anxiety as I wondered when we would again have an innocent excuse to stand so close. I immediately scolded myself by reminding myself of the task at hand, but I couldn't quite dismiss it the hollow sensation in my heart.  Fortunately, the unwanted thoughts vanished entirely as I saw two men slide with amazing grace over the edge of the roof.

They clambered like lizards over the brick side, holding fast without ropes.  The first easily opened the window and both slid in with a boneless grace that I have not seen in another human being before or since.

Holmes was already in motion.  He pulled me out onto the walkway before the house and loudly demanded money for drink.  Though I would have dearly appreciated prior notice for my part in this plan (of which I still knew near nothing), I improvised well enough by making a verbose show of pushing him off and lecturing him on the dangers of excessive alcohol.

We drew quite a bit of attention from the few evening travelers.  I saw several urchins scatter like rats and knew intuitively that they were on my companion's errand.

Holmes had put on a rather authentically horrific local accent and he caterwauled abuse at me that verged on profane and can't be reproduced here.  It is enough to say both that he had obviously been spending time researching on the docks and that he was genuinely enjoying himself.  Pretending offense was remarkably easy.

Behind us, a loud boom echoed from the rooftop.  Sparing a glance upward, I saw one of Holmes' irregulars dangling over the edge, gripped firmly at the ankle by a larger boy, to slide a metal pin into the scrollwork on the elaborate window shutters.

A moment later Lestrade and a handful of police officers swarmed past us and up the steps into the grand old house.  

Holmes, oddly rakish in his prosthetic nose and shoddy costume, smiled smugly and said, "Shall we go?"

"Your ingenious plan was to close the shutters and call the police?" I asked him, raising my eyebrows.

"Yes," he said brightly as he walked to the curb to hail a cab for us, "Effective is occasionally as ingenious as elaborate... and with considerably less effort."

Shaking my head, I took his arm as gentlemen often did.  For some reason, the gesture seemed to sober him, for his smug expression turned introspective.  Not willing to let him slide into his post-case depression just yet, I prodded, "So is this it?  Are these our phantoms?"

"No... These are just hired specialists, performers with the strength and skill to scale walls and perform the theft.  They were hired by the phantom, whom we will flush out with their assistance."

“It is time for one of your explanations, my dear Holmes,” I said.

He smiled smugly.

“The newspaper articles were all written by a Mr. John Tailor, whom I researched and discovered had connections to a number of art dealers and auction houses.  Normally, he has covered items of social interest, rather than criminal; in that way, his recent writing has been curiously atypical.  With that in mind, I looked into the background of the editor and management of the newspaper to find certain unsavory connections.”

He paused, then added, “All newspaper men have unsavory connections, of course, but these seemed to relate directly to our case.  When the police question our performers, I believe we'll find ourselves on the doorstep of the [newspaper name redacted] where we will find men with the dual motives of profiting by theft and profiting by sensational headlines."

I nodded and let him help me Into the cab.  His hand lingered for a moment on mine even after he had climbed in opposite me.

He looked out the window thoughtfully as he withdrew his hand, his expression surprising difficult to read.  He removed his ratty wig, and his fingers restlessly played over it as though it were the coat of a strokable house cat as he thought aloud, "But I have an uncomfortable sensation... that the newspaper men whom our burglars will name will only be a rung in the ladder.  This is all rather complex, far too much for common criminals to organize, and I sense that there is still deeper complexity that we have yet to uncover.   It is rather unsettling, for I feel as though we have brushed the outer threads of a web belonging to a much larger spider."

I took a moment to absorb that, waiting for him to elaborate as he often did.  Instead of speaking though, he was still for a moment longer before he reached across the narrow aisle to take my hand again. The contact, as well as whatever he was turning over in his incredible mind, seemed to galvanize him for he brightened visibly in a wholly inappropriate way.

"Though wouldn't it be incredible to think of a higher power in the criminal sphere?  A dark genius of crime?" he asked, his eyes catching the street's lamplight through the windows of the darken carriage.

"'Incredible' isn’t precisely the word I would choose," I began, wanting to guide him back onto a more socially acceptable line of thought, "More like 'terrifying' I would say..."

"Yes," he half-agreed, though I could tell that he was humoring me, "Though terrifying in an interesting way, a sort of potential-filled terror.  Like the curiosity a man feels on contemplating the mechanics of gunpowder or the knowledge that a frightened heart beating quickly will cause a wound to bleed faster."

Clearly, his initial feeling of unease had been rapidly burned off by the freshly stoked flames of his curiosity.  He had tidily sidestepped the lull at the conclusion of a case by crafting a master criminal from the twisted threads of his mental narrative.  If didn't know him better, I would have thought it so fanciful that he must have created this figure from his imagination.  However, nothing with Holmes was ever pure fantasy, and if he believed that a sadistic puppetmaster was pulling strings somewhere in London, some reasonable facsimile must have existed.

I sighed and shook my head, commenting, "You are delighted."

He seemed to remember himself for a moment, for he reined in his enthusiasm to sober his expression as the cab rolled to a stop before Baker Street.  In a more stoic voice he said, "Well, he will have to be properly discovered and brought to justice.  He is clearly a villain of the highest order."

I looked at him dubiously as he released my hand and climbed down.  

" _Delighted_ ," I reaffirmed.

He looked at me in surprise as though he hadn't expected that I would question his play acting.

"Absolutely," he finally agreed with a short, shameless chuckle.

He gestured for me to walk before him into the flat, and he rested his hand at the small of my back as he followed a step behind.  The brief contact caused a slight flutter in my stomach and reminded me of the sensation of his arm around me in the dark.  

"It's indecent," I scolded, referencing both his criminal enthusiasm and my own wayward desires.  The quiet of Baker Street and our familiar chairs before the fire stirred a warmth in me, a longing for those recent days when we would sit in comfortable conversation until I was almost drowsing against the cushions as he worked.  

"What is?"

"Your good mood!" I said almost defensively.

He glanced at me and laughed jovially as he peeled off the silly prosthetic nose and stripped off his tattered overcoat.  He rubbed the elegant bridge of his nose to remove the remains of the adhesive, then settled on the settee.  The gleam in his eyes and his almost mischievous smile indicated that he could see through my righteousness as easily as I had seen through his contrition.

"What is there not to be happy about, dear friend?  The theives have been apprehended, a master criminal discovered, and my Watson is again at Baker Street!"

I was strangely moved by his assertion that I was "his" Watson.  I was Mary's husband, but it was purely titular; claiming me as the man who fulfilled a role rather than claiming me as the man I was.  Holmes' words took me as a whole without impressing a label on what I was to him or making it a place that could be occupied by anyone else.

"Your Watson?" I queried.

"Yes, for I know you could belong to no other," he replied with his infuriating confidence as he picked up his pipe from the end table.

If you wish to continue to regard me as a virtuous man, I would suggest that you stop here and resume with 'A Case of Identity.'  I am not proud of my behavior, though I cannot change it in retrospect and would not likely choose to do so.  All the same, I am aware that readers likely have a particular image of me, both as a man and a husband, and that my love of Sherlock Holmes is at odds with both.  I can't change the depth of my feeling for him, or indeed that I am capable of loving a man at all, and I feel as though the complete exclusion of these sentiments would be almost dishonest.

I crossed the spaced between us to kneel down on the settee beside him.  When he looked up at me in surprise, I held his gaze and replied "true" before I leaned in and kissed him as he had kissed me months before.

He didn't pull away, though I could feel him stiffen slightly in shock.  As though with a conscious effort, he relaxed against me and lingered close until I pulled away.

"You love me," I reminded him quietly, my voice holding a Holmesian level of self-assurance that I did not quite feel.

He licked his lips, then nodded and confirmed carefully, "Yes."

As soon as the words had been uttered, I realized that his feelings had been a mirror of my own for the entirety of the evening; he had felt the same tension, the same desperation, and the same guarded desire.

The sentiment of love had previously been firmly confined to the guarded cell of his mind.  Now that it had turned to a physical demand, Holmes felt it a challenge to overcome and master the need the way he had sleep and food.  He yielded to those needs, but on his own terms.  It was how he staved off the fear of his own mortality, the sensation of his mortal body slowly dying around a mind that seemed eternal.  

His reaction to his own desire was well-concealed fear; now that he had me as he had imagined that he wanted me, he had no idea what he should do with me.  

I leaned close again, unwilling to be brushed aside for reflection, and pressed my mouth to his.

He tasted faintly like alcohol and sweet tobacco.  Without waiting for further encouragement, I slipped my tongue between his teeth and deepened the kiss.  He made a soft, slightly surprised sound and pulled back a bit.  With his back against the settee though, I was at leisure to pursue him and kiss him again.  The second time, he yielded against me and tentatively slid his tongue against mine.

I could feel his heart pounding through our shirts and undershirts and vests, but I didn't feel any remorse as my hand moved to the cradle the back of his neck.  As naturally as he acquired any other skill, his awkwardness fell away as he became more confident.  

Kissing Sherlock Holmes was unlike anything I had ever done, for it completely cleared my thoughts of anything other than the warmth of his body and the press of his lips. For that moment, I had no recollection of what it had felt like to kiss anyone else, and as his confidence and tangible need mounted I almost felt my own considerable ability faltering.  In the back if my mind I felt a vague frustration because I did not fully know how to satisfy my lust for him.  By the slightly agitated movement of his left hand gripping my jacket sleeve, I could tell that he was in a similar state.  

He pulled back to breathe, "My God, Watson..."

His face was quite flushed and it made his eyes stand out all the more exquisitely.  I laid my hand along his well-defined jawline, then kissed him again.  My other hand slid down over his chest and even though he didn't move I could feel his muscles tighten under my fingertips.  It was darkly satisfying to finally know something that Holmes did not; though I had never been with a man, pleasureable contact was not wholly new to me as it was for him.

My fingers explored his clothed form, from his surprisingly muscular upper body to his abdomen.  He jumped at my hand on his thigh, but pressed into my palm when it brushed against the taut front of his trousers.  As I applied slightly more pressure, conforming my fingers to the hardened line of his arousal, he made a quiet sound that wrote itself into indelibly onto my heart - a soft exhalation of my Christian name. _ John_.

He pulled me closer as though any distance between us was abhorrent to him, and I wondered if perhaps after so long without human contact he now thirsted for it like a man rescued from wasting in the desert.  His long musician's fingers then made thoughtful explorations as my own had moments before.  He broke from our heated kiss and obstinately avoided my mouth when I sought his again.

After a moment, I realized that his lips were moving.  My admittedly lust-hazed mind took a moment to realize what was happening, and as I dipped my head to instead place my kisses along his long, smooth throat, I instructed him, "Aloud..."

His fingers grazed my upper arm, then caressed up over the back of my shoulder.  His voice had a darker register than I had heard before, low and soft, as his clear words issued forth.

"Scar, approximately 2 inches in length and poorly mended; lingering tissue injury inhibits range of motion and causes chronic pain..."

Skimming his hand across my upper back, he continued, "Deep tension within the trapezius and splenius capitis, masked visually by erect carriage, indicating long-term emotional stress..."

As his calloused fingertips moved down the line of my spine, pressing lightly to feel every notched vertebrae and tense muscle fibre, he fell silent and suddenly wrapped both of his long arms about me to pull me firmly against him.  There was an unaccustomed quality of tenderness in the movement that caught me unaware.

I will never know what discovery he had made or why it upset him; it was one of those rare deductions that he kept to himself.

This time he leaned forward to kiss me, which sent a surge of relief through me as my amorous intentions seemed to be returned. He opened his mouth readily into the kiss and pulled me closer so that I was half atop him.

His lithe body beneath mine was taut and eager, and I could feel the rise of his arousal pressed against mine.  We moved against one another, the rocking movements drawing quiet sounds of pleasure amidst our heated, clumsy kissing.

It seemed to build in intensity until I thought I might have found release in his arms.  However, with a soft sound he pushed me away, gasping almost inaudibly,  "Too much..."

I sat back, alight with desire for him that only intensified as my eager eyes took in his appearance.  His dark hair was mussed, his collar was askew, and his cheeks were flushed.  His lips were slightly reddened, almost swollen, from the fervent vigor of our kisses.  He was breathless and his pupils were dilated in lust.

"Too much?" I asked incredulously.

He dragged his long, thin fingers back through his hair, which seemed to have the opposite of the desired effect.  

"I've never..." he breathed.  He shook his head abortively, then began again, "I need to think."

He was clearly overwhelmed and I was gentleman enough not to press him even as my nerves smoldered and my heart raced.  I nodded, a bit unwillingly, and pulled him up against my side.  With my arm about him, he slouched low enough that he could rest his dark head on my shoulder.

Uncertainly and suddenly overcome with a flash of anxiety, I asked, "What about?"

He was silent for a moment as he carefully chose his words.  He turned slightly to rest his brow against my jaw, which gave me some comfort that I had not upset him.  Finally, he said, "How to... _do_ all this."

Having cleared that hurdle, he spoke more freely, sounding more like himself as he hastened to assure me that he wasn't referring to mechanics.

"We must be moderate so as not to make mistakes.  I would be horrified to damage our relationship through hasty, short-sighted decisions."

I relaxed slightly at that and turned my head to press my lips to his forehead.  

"Did I push you to this?"

"You should know by now that I cannot be pushed to anything."

"So you wanted..."

"You, yes.  Very much.  But..." he paused and again chose his words with care, "Not just for this evening."

At his words I remembered my life outside of Baker Street and I felt a twinge of shame.  My wife was at home, our home, and I was unfaithful to her.  However, at that moment I could scarcely imagine her face or recall the color of her eyes.  Her voice in my thoughts was silent; I could not bring myself to pull away from my companion nor to fully regret the course of actions that had brought me to this point. In truth, I was more ashamed of my lack of shame than my infidelity.

"Your clear thinking has saved us then, my dear Holmes, from a grave mistake," I began, speaking more out of stoic duty than true feeling.  If I were honest, I would be forced to admit that the thought of giving up this impossible man was devastating.  I am however, as you may have ascertained, not the most honest of all men and particularly was not in that moment.  And though I already was desperately considering a host of theatrical excuses to find myself pressed against him, I continued forth, "We mustn't ever--"

The man in my arms, the cool analytical creature of logic, asserted quietly, "Stop talking, Watson.  You know as well as I do that you have no intention of giving me up so easily, and your saying otherwise will only wound me or make me cross."

There was no way to argue with the truth of that, and when he lifted his chin to kiss me again, I knew it was hopeless to try.  I abandoned myself to his attentions, letting him caress my face and hair with his strong fingers as his tongue slid against mine with growing confidence.  

The thread between us tightened again as we kissed one another and my hands wandered over his lean chest and limbs, but he had drawn a line that I wouldn't cross that night.  Despite that every advance that he allowed and every quiet sound that passed his lips made me want more, we eventually subsided into half-reclining on the settee with his lanky form curled into my arms.

When things had settled again and I could feel that his breathing had turned soft and regular, Holmes observed, "I have just realized that we have only accused each other of affection without any declarations of our own.”

We were both quiet again for a moment before I replied, “I am going to deduce by your silence that you are intending that I should declare my affections for you first.”

"Ha," he laughed in agreement and tapped the top of his nose as though we were playing charades.

I snorted at him, at both his gall and his lack of subtlety, then turned him in my arms so that we were face to face.  I almost faltered when his intense eyes met my own, but I managed to admit, "I am yours, Holmes; all of your narcissistic accusations are true."

He smiled broadly, though there was an odd turn at the corner of his mouth that was more amusement at my cheek than pleasure at my admission.

"I fail to see how it's narcissism when it's true."

"Will I not receive return confirmation of your ardor?"

"When we've settled this very serious smear against my character," he replied, "You accuse me of egotism and declare your affection for me in the same breath!"

"You're being unattractively avoidant," I informed him.

At that, he cocked his sleek head to the side and regarded me with a thoughtful expression, the way he would appraise a corpse or a ransomer's letter.  Someone else might have found such a thing off-putting, but knowing him as I did I recognized that I would receive a deep, introspective response.

"It is difficult for me to put into words things that cannot be measured or quantified.  But there is no one in this world for whom I hold greater love or respect than you, no man in this world for whose sake I would be willing to take on greater risk, and there is no trespass I would not forgive you.  I am not a man of great sentiment, nor have I much skill in the care of others.  However, for you I would attempt to address these failings in myself.  I do love you, Watson, though my nature is poorly suited to expressing it."

Though it was delivered as smoothly and calmly as if he were explaining a difficult deduction, there was a faint rose-tinge in his cheeks and almost fever-gloss to his eyes. I knew him well enough then to recognize that this admission had taken every ounce of his resolve, and that he had been forced to set aside a great deal of his pride to plainly expose his secretly tender heart.

I lacked the words to express my gratitude or the depth of my emotion.  How could I tell him that in the face of those words, every past love, no matter how consuming my adoration for her may have once seemed, had suddenly rang spiritless and turned to dust in my heart?  What words could express the way my soul had warmed when he simply said my name?  How could I express the desolation I felt at knowledge that I couldn't remain constantly in his impossibly frustrating and eternally engaging presence?

Instead I nodded and took his face in my hands to press my lips to his brow, "Thank you, my dearest Holmes.  It is exactly what I want."

He relaxed and finally allowed his eyes to slip closed.  He leaned close to seal our confessions with a chaste kiss.  

There were a great many subjects that required discussion, but we had reached the end of our endurance for that night.  Tired, warm, and frustrated by my unfulfilled lust, I simply held my friend and companion, silently adoring the solid, sharp-boned body against mine.  

He was quiet, though I could almost feel the gears whirring in his skull when he rested his head against my shoulder again.

"What are you thinking about?"

"My master criminal."

I groaned, "You declared your love for me just moments ago and you're back to that?  Holmes, you're like a dog with a bone!"

Despite that I had been thinking only of him and the predicament in which I found myself, I wasn't offended.  I knew him and I loved him in spite of his occasionally irritating tendencies.

“True, but a more loyal dog you’ll never know, dear Watson.”

His laughter was soft and self-indulgent as he slouched lower in the settee, hooking his knees over the armrest and crossing his dangling feet lazily at the ankle.  He was an uncouth creature and at that moment I could hardly be happier to have him resting against me and behaving abominably.


End file.
